


all of our ghosts

by Muir_Wolf



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 30 days writing challenge, F/M, One Shot, med school au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:53:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Med School AU</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You probably deserve to,” she says, and the set of her mouth is firm, firm, firm, but her eyes are already forgiving him. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	all of our ghosts

-

Hawkeye stands outside the door, his bare feet chilly against the cold cement. He leans his head against the front door, and slowly breathes in, and slowly breathes out.

“Beej,” he says (again), his fingers once more wiggling the doorknob. He doesn’t know why he’s trying again. Repeating the same action again and again and expecting different results - didn’t someone say that was insanity? Einstein, maybe. One of them. Freedman would know. Freedman would have an answer for this, and maybe an answer for why Hawk’s standing outside in bare feet and a bathrobe and swallowing down a hundred different curses at his roommate.

The thing about med school is that everyone starts to go a _little_ off the deep end around finals, and the other thing is that BJ’s having a pretty major (their _first_ ) fight with his girlfriend, and the final thing about med school (or specifically this night) is that Hawkeye has never, ever, ever learned when to not make the joke. In retrospect, it’s very clear that he shouldn’t have made the joke, but also humor is half-reflex and all-safety-zone, and Hawkeye’s been relying on it since the morning he wiped his tears in the mirror and lifted his chin and started school again for the first time since his mom died.

You’d think he’d learn.

You’d think, and yet.

“Can you please shut the hell up?” a woman’s voice asks, cutting through the quiet of the night. Hawkeye glances up, and sure enough it’s Margaret leaning outside the door of her university apartment, her eyes narrowed at him. Her eyes are breathtaking, no doubt, but her assuredly apropos scorn is currently overshadowed by the way her hair is tumbling down her shoulder. He should sell tickets to this, he really should, his overwhelming heap of student loans would be paid off in a week if he sold tickets to Margaret Houlihan’s angry eyes and tumbling hair.

“Beej locked me out,” Hawkeye says. He knows it’s a weak protest before he opens his mouth, so he’s not too surprised when her jaw tics. 

“I have a final tomorrow morning,” she says. “Not that it would matter to you one whit, but as I recall _you also_ have a final tomorrow morning. Can. You. Please. Shut. The. Hell. Up.”

“Do you want me to sleep on the doorstep?” he asks, slightly incredulous, and slightly realizing that yes, yes she probably does if it will get her her beauty sleep.

(His unflappable Margaret, though: he knows she’ll cave in the end. She’s got too much heart - she thinks it’s her downfall but he’s pretty sure it’ll save them all in the end.)

She rolls her eyes. It’s quite the sight. He should sell tickets to this, too, should pass out photographs so that all the people who peg her as Sex Kitten or The Bitch get a chance to see her in all her myriad ways. He likes her best like this, he thinks. Two years of living next door and vying against each other for top place in their classes and him holding back her hair after she drank too much and her running her cool washcloth over his face as his fever peaked and all the ways they’re so hard around each other, and all the ways they’re so soft around each other.

“You probably deserve to,” she says, and the set of her mouth is firm, firm, firm, but her eyes are already forgiving him. He waits until she says it before he moves, though. They’ve danced this dance in too many ways for him to forget the steps now. “Come on, then, you can sleep on the couch,” she says, and it’s only then that he moves, his fingertips scraping against the paint on the door as he steps away from it and towards her. The cement is still cold against his bare feet.

She turns away, and by the time he’s standing in the doorway, she’s holding an extra blanket for him.

“Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he says, always testing the waters.

“I do have a bad habit of adopting strays,” she says, not pushing back quite as hard as he was expecting.

He sits down on the couch, the blanket in his arms, and watches her move in the kitchen. He’ll have to apologize to BJ tomorrow. He’ll have to get back in his room before the final starts unless he wants to take it in boxers and a ratty tee. He’ll have to find a way to make this up to Margaret without her knowing that he is. He’ll have to–

She pushes a cup of tea in his hands, her tumble of hair even more distracting from this much closer. She perches on the edge of the coffee table, her knees brushing against his.

“You going to be able to sleep okay?” she asks. Her voice is bordering on gentle. (It’s always easier when it’s just the two of them and no audience. Always easier when it’s them in the half-light.)

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, just–I hate it when Beej’s mad at me.”

Her lips twist, just a little, like she’s biting back something she wants to say. Instead, her hand reaches out and cups the back of his neck for just a moment, squeezes lightly for just a moment, and then she’s folding back into herself and standing up and stepping back and stepping away.

“I’ll wake you in the morning,” she says. He smiles lopsidedly, or tries to.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says. His fingers curl around the mug to keep himself from doing something stupid, like curling them in the tumble of her hair. As if he could. As if she wouldn’t stop him.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she says, something like a smile ghosting across her lips, something like a challenge in her eyes.

He lies back on the couch after she disappears, and closes his eyes. She’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t get enough sleep; never forgive him if they don’t compete tomorrow on the same level playing field. She wants to beat him fair and square. 

He wants–

He closes his eyes, closes his eyes, and breathes breathes breathes.

__

_Finis_


End file.
